


Confirmed Kills

by Schmuzz



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Choking, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Mr. and Mrs. Smith AU, Myan Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmuzz/pseuds/Schmuzz
Summary: Michael was an electrician, Ryan was an IT specialist. They had been married for three years, lived in a nice little home outside of the city. A basic, domesticated couple. Nothing unsightly or out of the ordinary for them.Until they're booked for the same target, and find each other instead.





	Confirmed Kills

**Author's Note:**

> I was surprised spy au made it for one of the themes this year; had to go with a classic Mr. and Mrs. Smith au, obvs.

The alarm went off at seven, like usual. And like usual, Ryan stretched, rolled out of bed, and headed to the bathroom. When pulled the shower curtain back ten minutes later, hair damp and water dripping down his body, Michael was brushing his teeth at one of the sinks. 

“Morning,” he said. Michael spat into the sink and smiled in the mirror.

“Morning to you, too,” he said. He turned, kissing the corner of Ryan’s mouth. “I’ll go get breakfast ready.” Ryan watched him go, before slowly reaching for the towel hanging on the back of the door. 

There might have been a time when that scene would’ve cut straight to shower sex, a handful of years ago. Ryan tried not to dwell on it as he finished getting ready for work. Ryan tried not to dwell on a lot of things, really - he had it down to an art form. He didn’t need to take work home with him, didn’t need those demons to follow him wherever he went.

He just never thought his own husband was something he needed to avoid thinking about. 

Michael was already dressed. He had taken over his old mentor’s electrician company around the time they met, so his work clothes were usually an old graphic tee and beat up jeans. He still went on some jobs himself, after all, sometimes even coming home dirty and bruised from a particularly rough day.

“Ow, fuck,” he muttered, burning himself as he tried to pluck some toast out of the toaster.

“You okay?” Ryan asked, grabbing the mug of coffee Michael had already poured for him. “Want me to kiss it better?”

“I got it,” he said, sliding Ryan’s plate over to him. “Oh - Barbara and Trevor texted me, do you think you can come to the Riverside after work?” 

“Right - that, the thing.”

“My birthday thing, yeah.”

“Why would you want to spend your birthday with our neighbors?”

“They’re  _ fine  _ \- and I wouldn’t be spending my birthday with  _ just  _ our neighbors if my husband could join me.”

Ryan frowned. “I - I might be able to make it.” Michael raised an eyebrow.

“Might?”

“It’s just - there’s been some projects I’ve been ignoring, and -” Michael turned back around, pouring coffee into a traveller’s mug. 

“If you can’t come, you can’t come,” he said with a shrug.

“I’m sorry. Maybe we can do something else? Later.” There was a honk from the street. 

“That’s Gavin. I’ll see you tonight, or not.” He playfully pinched one of Ryan’s cheeks - Michael had always been adverse to PDA, sometimes he’d pinch or pick on Ryan instead of the more typical signs of affection. This felt more like a punishment, fingernails digging into his skin painfully. 

“Can Gavin even drive?”

“He shouldn’t be. Stay safe,” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed out, door shutting behind him.

Ryan picked at the eggs and toast on his plate, which had since gone cold. He knew he should have felt bad about putting off the dinner. Their neighbors were nice enough, they were just so… normal. And nosy. He sighed, getting up and tossing the uneaten breakfast into the trash. He headed out to the garage, phone to his ear. 

“Hey, it’s me. Any word on the target?” He popped the trunk, sliding out the false bottom. He looked into the familiar empty eyes of a skull and picked up a desert eagle, idly checking the clip. “Uhuh. Need anything else?” His eyes narrowed. “Cleanup’s another twenty percent. Okay. I’ll handle it by tonight.” He hung up the phone. He hadn’t bothered putting on a suit today before Michael left, and he shrugged on a holster and the ‘spare’ leather jacket he kept in the trunk. He left the mask on the passenger seat, slowly backing out of the garage, leaving behind the modern, unassuming little house and driving into the heart of Los Santos. 

 

-

 

“What sort of fucking name is Bernard, anyway?” Michael whispered into the comm device hooked into his ear. He had temporarily disabled one of the elevator cars - along with the camera inside it - and exited through the top grate, and was now scaling the few remaining stories up to the penthouse suite. 

“I don’t know,” Gavin replied. There was the distant sound of typing. “Not someone you expect to be behind one of the biggest opiate surges in the city in the last decade, though.”

“No. What a prick. Hey, you coming to my birthday dinner tonight?”

“Tonight? It’s not even your real birthday.”

“Yeah, well, my  _ real  _ husband is too busy with geek squad to actually make it. And I only turn thirty once.”

“Twice, again, next month.”

Michael kicked from the wall and hauled himself up to a service ladder. “Shut up, I’m here.”

“Okay, that latch should be locked…” Michael grunted, pushing the cover up, bright sunlight flooding in. 

“It wasn’t,”

“Thank God for lazy maintenance workers,” Gavin muttered. “Okay, you’re facing the back of the suite on the north side. This guy definitely isn’t dumb enough to leave his doors unlocked, so you’re gonna have to break the window.”

“Done and done.” Michael unclipped the carabiner that had attached his rope to the elevator cables, hooking it onto the ladder rail instead. He hauled himself up into the bright light and pushed himself flush against the outer wall. He slowly peeked his head around the corner and glanced around. 

“Bernard should still be out at, uh, racquetball? For another twenty minutes.” Michael clipped a portable laser cutter from his belt, along with a handled suction cup. He cut a person-sized hole in the window, pulled it out, and slipped inside. 

“I’m in,” he said.

“Okay, office should be to your right, past the kitchen.” Michael found it easily. There was a laptop sitting on a conspicuously empty desk. He opened it, and hooked up a portable code breaker into the USB drive. He watched various black dots appear on the password line.

“You set this with the most likely options first, right?” 

“Yes. Estimated time to crack this is about forty minutes or -”

“Got it.” He replaced the codebreaker with a USB stick. “What was it?”

“Uh… Swordfish42.”

“Why is that a common password?”

“Just one of those things. I’ll let everything sync to the drive while I wait then.” Michael clicked through until he found the files he was instructed to download. It would take another… hour, according to the progress bar that flashed onscreen. Great. “Guess I’ll have to sit around in a dead man’s apartment until this finishes.” 

A door opened. Michael flinched, immediately pulling the gun from his belt and backing against the wall against the door. 

“The mark shouldn’t be home yet!” Gavin protested. Michael would have loved to bite back with a ‘well someone’s here’, but he stayed quiet. There was the sound of footsteps passing into the living room. Michael had meant to wait by the front door for Bernard to appear, but this person sounded like they were exploring the whole apartment.

They would see the hole in the window and know they weren’t alone. 

Michael slowly clicked the safety off his gun. The metallic  _ chink! _ it made seemed to echo throughout the whole apartment regardless. He breathed through his nose, eyes rolled to the left to watch the hallway, and waited. 

Michael saw the gun first - whoever it was pointing it into the room - and he shot it, making it clatter to the floor and discharge into the ceiling. Michael backed away from the wall, keeping the gun trained on the other assailant. 

Killing people for a living and doing well at it usually meant a lack of self-preservation, the inability to feel fear. But Michael still felt his stomach drop when he saw the infamous black rubber mask of the Vagabond. 

“What the fuck,” he hissed, right as Gavin screamed right in his  _ fucking  _ ear. “Never thought I’d be competing with you.” 

Vagabond remained eerily still and quiet. Probably because Michael had a gun trained right between his eyes. He felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of his neck. “I’m giving you the ever-so merciful option of walking away and not shooting your fucking brains out, pal. If you’d like to take it, be my fucking -  _ fuck! _ ” Vagabond had slipped a knife from his belt and tossed it into the meat of Michael’s thigh, making him buckle. He pulled it out with a pained groan as Vagabond charged him and grabbed his throat, sending him to the floor, making the knife clatter from Michael’s hand.

“Shit, boi, get out of there!” Gavin continued to scream in his ear. Michael ignored it, falsely going limp for a moment to twist around onto his stomach, lifting himself and temporarily bucking Vagabond off of him. He kicked him hard in the dick, scrabbling for his gun and firing a two shots into his chest, right at his heart. He let out a grunt of pain and stopped moving. Michael was left panting, bent over, staring at the dead body. 

“Did you really kill him?” 

“I - I guess. Didn’t really take a pulse yet. Pretty sure two rounds in the heart ought to do it.” He squinted, didn’t look like he was breathing… But if the Vagabond’s mortality rate was based off killers from horror movies, he wouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Unmask him. I wonder who he is.” Michael didn’t really want to touch the guy, but Gavin wasn’t the only one who was curious about the hitman’s identity. Even people who hired him never saw his face. Checking once again to confirm the Vagabond was definitely not breathing, he crouched down, peeling the rubber mask up from his neck. He had a defined jawline, light stubble, thin, pink lips, high cheekbones, and a slightly crooked nose… And suddenly Michael did not want to look any further. He very slowly hiked the mask up further, revealing two familiar, bright blues eyes, looking at him with unbridled hatred.

They blinked.

A shot rang out. Michael had the unconscious instinct to reel back and just missed his face getting blown off. He stumbled to his feet. Ryan took aim again, and he dove out of the room, running to the living room and through the hole he had made. Opening the elevator hatch again and rehooking the cable to his belt was the longest ten seconds of his life. He slammed the hatch closed behind him and plunged down, into the darkness, the cable biting hard into the skin of his palms as he forced his descent to stop, slipped back into the service elevator, and ran down the long stretch of hallway to the building’s back exit.

“Coming at your six, you have the car running?” Michael asked, the wound in his thigh burning and oozing blood. 

“Yes, yes, got it.”

“Roll the window down.” He winced in the sunlight, turning a corner to the side of the building where Gavin was waiting. In front of him, having come from the front entrance, was Ryan. In the distance, he saw the metal glint of a gun in his hand. 

Just as he raised it, Michael ducked through the open window of Gavin’s car, struggling to pull his feet in as he peeled away, tires squealing. He looked behind him, and saw Ryan, back in his mask, staring at him, his figure growing in the distance. 

He finally righted himself. He numbly pulled on his seatbelt. 

“You alright, there?” Gavin asked, turning sharply onto the highway.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’ll survive, at any rate.” 

“Okay.” 

“Ryan tried to kill me,” Michael said. 

“You did shoot at him first.”

“He had the mask on! I didn’t know  _ he  _ was the vagabond. He’s supposed to be in IT! A regular, not important, civilian guy. Not Los Santos’ bogeyman.” Gavin glanced at him. He was driving way too fast, but Michael didn’t care. “He knew who I was and he shot back.” He heard his voice break, and he coughed. “Where are we going?”

“Back to my place. Figured home might not be the safest option for you.”

“What if he follows us?” Gavin shrugged.

“I figured you were going to go back to him eventually. You’re not the type to run away.”

“No, I’m not. Neither is he.” 

Gavin’s apartment was by the beach. He had always liked the ocean. It was an older part of the city, but he had outfitted his apartment with the false walls, gun safes, a whole range of maybe-illegal tech he used in his day to day. Gavin immediately sat down in front of his computer desk, logging on. Three gigantic screens came to life, and he started typing into some database. Michael made himself a drink. He stared out the ocean, letting Gavin do - whatever it was. He could hear the sound of gulls through the window; he watched a few leathery looking bathers laying out on the sand. 

Michael and Ryan travelled a lot. Their vacation time always instigated by a hit or a mission. Even on their honeymoon in Mykonos, Michael had taken a small boat out to the yacht of a wannabe oil baron and slit his throat, planting explosives at the hull of the ship and detonating them as he sped away. The rest of the trip had been spent in the warm, Mediterranean sea, hiking up the mountains, Ryan explaining the history behind every ruin site they visited. Late nights drinking wine - well, mostly Michael drinking, and Ryan watching with a fond look in his eye, before telling him to come to bed. 

At some point, Ryan had probably gone out and killed a mark, too. Even then.

Michael felt a tear roll down his cheek, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand, finishing his drink.

“Gavin,” he said shakily. “Does the - the Vagabond work for anyone?”

“He doesn’t have any loyalties, takes whatever contract comes his way. He might have a handler, a woman with an alias called Dollface. Or maybe a partner. Not much is known about him, as you know,” Gavin said, tone dry and informative. “Why?”

He rolled the glass between his hands. “I don’t think there was a hit out for Bernard, I think he was bait. Someone figured out who we are, and they want us dead. Maybe we’re too expensive these days. Too good at what we do, took a job we shouldn’t have, something.” 

“If you two were to become a team,” Gavin suggested, “I imagine it would be intimidating.” 

What if they  _ had  _ become a team, Michael wondered. “Maybe…” Michael trailed off. Maybe it could have revitalized their marriage before it even started to falter. Or maybe they would have died in a shootout that much earlier. He put the glass on the kitchen counter.

“So, what are you gonna do?”

Michael was silent for a moment, staring at the sun soaked scene before him. The back of his eyes stung, but he forced himself to stay calm. Collected. Heartless. Michael hadn’t known who was behind that mask, that was why he shot. But Ryan knew who  _ he  _ was, and he still tried to kill him. If their marriage hadn’t been an act from the start, there wasn’t anything genuine left of it now. 

“I don’t have any other options,” he said, voice even. “I’m gonna have to kill him.”

 

-

 

Even if he never truly knew Ryan, he still had a feeling he would be at home, waiting for him.

Gavin leant him nearly all the weaponry he had. “Brand new, most of it,” he added, “since I never really do that sort of thing,” 

Michael checked the pistols, the shotgun; all full clips of ammo. Gavin handed him a pair of smoke grenades, which he clipped onto his belt. 

He even let Michael take his car - he had others. “I’ll let you know, if I make it. I’ll probably have to run after this, anyway. You might want to lay low, too.”

“I’ll look into island condos as soon as you leave,” Gavin said. Michael hesitated a moment, then pulled the younger man into a tight hug. 

“You’re a good handler, and a good friend,” he muttered. “Make the condo a two bedroom. I don’t think my house is gonna survive this.” 

“Roger that.” Gavin watched him get into the car, and drive away, out of the city, into the suburbs. Out of the fire…

He pulled onto the opposite street and ducked through his neighbor’s backyard. It was dark out, no lights at his own house. Not that that meant anything. 

As he got closer, he ducked behind one of the ornamental bushes in their yard. Through the leaves and branches, he saw a figure roam by the glass screen door that led onto their patio. 

Ryan was holding a submachine gun. He glanced at the seemingly empty yard, before ducking out of sight. 

Michael had been right, at least. 

Their house was modest, compared to some of the other neighborhoods outside of the city. But it was large enough that Michael could hope on their patio table, get onto the roof of their attached garage, and pull himself up to the second floor - guest bedroom. He broke the window, waited, and when Ryan didn’t come bursting through, he unlocked it, opening it the rest of the way and sliding through, onto the bed. He crept out into the hallway, down the stairs… 

A step creaked.

He ducked, a wave of bullets spraying through the wall. Michael kept moving, taking a left into the dining room. He heard Ryan’s footsteps racing after him, and he answered with his own round of fire before retreating further back into the den. The line of bullets followed him, and he slide behind a couch, taking cover as he fired back. Ryan ducked, taking potshots until the windows behind him busted out and the couch was reduced to stuffing.

Keeping low, Michael ran for new cover. “Don’t know how you became one of the best assassins with shitty aim like that,” he called out. There was a pause.

“Still better than you,” came the answer.

“Ooh, I’m shaking, totally destroyed by your vicious insults.” He searched for another clip in his pockets and came up empty. Fuck. He looked over and grabbed a framed picture off a nearby table - the two of them on their wedding day, how ironic. And cliche. He held it out from the doorway, seeing Ryan standing just beyond it, holding a shotgun. It was blasted out of his hands, and he was left running into the kitchen. He needed to get the fucking guns out of Ryan’s hands or he wasn’t going to last long. Glancing around, he pulled fhe fridge out from against the wall and ducked behind it. He grabbed a nearby kitchen knife from the block it was kept in and severed the gas line behind the stove. He turned on all the burners and the oven itself before dashing into the other room. He watched as Ryan walked in a moment later, looking around.

“Hiding?” he said. Michael swore it was in a teasing tone. He walked over to the gap between the moved refridgerator and the stove, raising his gun at an angle and firing into the empty space.

Promptly sparking a fire, causing him to drop his guns and make a hasty retreat towards Michael’s current position. Michael met him with a fist to the jaw, sending his balance off. Ryan grabbed a nearby ceramic pot and cracked it against Michael’s skull on the way down. He was then picked up and dragged by his arm and the back of his shirt straight into the wall, then another wall, then tossed across an entire side table of glassware, onto the floor. He rolled over, trying to get his bearings, and saw Ryan slowly walking towards him. “Come on baby,” he taunted, “come to daddy.”

Reaching out, Michael found a heavy iron dish that had survived the fall, and wrapped it in the table cloth, swinging it and smacking it heavily against Ryan’s chest. He let the weight slip onto the floor as he twisted the cloth around Ryan’s neck, choking him and forcing him backwards into the china cabinet. “Who’s your daddy now, bitch?” he said with a grin before running off again. 

Only for Ryan to appear in the doorway of the destroyed den, bodyslamming him into the ruined couch. He put up his arms, blocking himself against punches to his face, only for Ryan to switch to kicking him in the stomach. He struggled in vain to get air back into his lungs, but managed to aim a well placed kick to his nuts.

“Fuck!” Ryan leapt back. “That’s the second time you kicked me in the nuts today.”

Michael eased back up onto his feet. “Second time you tried to kill me today.”

The both stood at awkward angles. Ryan had a few grazed bullet wounds and Michael could feel one of his eyes swelling up. His entire body throbbed, one large, aching bruise only held together by adrenaline. They both struggled for breath.

He knew he had a gun taped under the kitchen sink. 

Ryan glanced at the fireplace across the room. 

Michael shoved him, vaulted over the couch, and wrestled the gun out from its hiding spot. When he turned around, Ryan had just slid into the kitchen, his own gun raised at Michael’s forehead.

Michael panted, gaze flicking between Ryan’s eyes, and the black gun trained on him. His own trigger finger itched. 

Ryan had that look on his face - he always had a way of looking at people, scrutinizing them, like he could read their thoughts. Michael had always loved his eyes, even when they pierced him like they did now. He wanted to move, wanted to end this, but -

Ryan lowered his gun an inch, then another, until it pointed down at the ground. Michael didn’t even breathe. 

“I can’t,” Ryan whispered. “I can’t do it.”

The Vagabond was a heartless bastard with a body count in the hundreds. He was ‘probably a sociopath’, according to the files Gavin had drawn up. No feeling bone in his body. 

And he was going to give up.

“No,” Michael whispered. He shoved the barrel of his gun against Ryan until it pressed between his eyes. “Do it!” He yelled, teeth grinding together. “Come on!” Ryan swallowed.

“You win,” Ryan said. “I’m not making a suicide pact with you.” 

“Don’t you fucking quit right here, Ryan! I -”

“Michael,” Ryan whispered to him, a soft sound. Michael felt the back of his eyes burn; a noise crawled up his throat and came out as a strangled whimper. 

Ryan dropped his gun, knocking Michael’s out of his hand, and kissed him, pressing their bodies together. “Ryan,” he gasped out, arms going tight around Ryan’s back. He let Ryan lead him to the wrecked kitchen island, heard the sound of shattering ceramic as Ryan swept the remains of dishes and loose granite away, placing Michael on the counter instead. Michael couldn’t break the kiss, holding Ryan’s face in his hands, calloused thumbs stroking along his husband’s stubbled cheeks. The adrenaline of their near fight to the death had lurched and shifted, and Michael thought he would die if Ryan stopped kissing him with everything he had. 

They had grown so distant and cold with each other, trying to preserve their secret lives, an uncrossable rift that had been there so long Michael couldn’t remember a time when it  _ hadn’t  _ been there. Ryan hadn’t kissed him like this in a long time, and now that he got the barest hint of what it used to be like, he couldn’t get enough. 

When they did pull away, Ryan pressed their foreheads together. A hand went to Michael’s chest, tugging at the zipper on the front of his suit. He hadn’t changed from the infiltration outfit he had used on the Bernard mission - or setup, as he had eventually concluded. “I’ve had a lot of fantasies about you,” Ryan said in a conversational tone, “don’t think the cat suit made it into them.”

“It’s kevlar reinforced,” Michael explained, still breathless from the kiss. 

“And I just had a regular vest like a chump.” Which explained why he had survived two shots to the heart. 

“Well, Infiltration is my speciality.”

“Just infiltration?” Ryan tugged Michael’s zipper down slightly, exposing his skin. “Never pulled a honeypot mission in this thing?”

“Didn’t think my marks would be interested.”

“Oh, I’m very interested.” Ryan moved the zipper down to Michael’s utility belt. Despite the name, it wasn’t actually made of latex, and Michael tugged his arms free easily enough. 

“If you want to see me wear it, you can just ask,” Michael teased, tugging at the back of Ryan’s shirt, until the older man got the hint and pulled it over his head. 

“Later, don’t want you wearing anything right now.” 

Michael wrapped his legs behind Ryan’s back, easing off the countertop into the other man’s waiting arms. “Let’s take this somewhere where there isn’t broken glass in every direction, then.” 

“You read my mind.”

Their fight hadn’t carried to their bedroom, fittingly enough. A few pictures had been knocked off the walls from the reverb caused by the gunshots, but that was manageable. Ryan tossed Michael down on their bed and quickly covered him, kisses dizzying and hot, wet, teeth pressing down on the sensitive skin on his neck. Michael gasped, holding Ryan ever closer with one hand, the other reaching between them to unbutton his jeans and shove them down his hips. He had to undo the holster at Ryan’s side, too. It was thankfully empty. 

“You look like a fucking cowboy with your holsters and shit. Get a utility belt.”

“Alright, catwoman.” Michael rolled his eyes, leaving Ryan to his clothes as he peeled his suit off the rest of the way. “Aw, you don’t go commando?”

“Only on the important missions,” he winked, sliding his underwear off too. Ryan was back on him, sucking a future mark into his neck and Michael shoved his jeans off like they personally offended him. “So,” he bit his lip for a moment when Ryan’s tongue and teeth traced behind his ear, a known sensitive spot, “how do we wanna do this?”

“Well, I know I don’t have the patience for prepping either one of us right now.” It had been… an embarrassingly long time since they slept together. Did they even have lube laying around? He didn’t feel like checking. All Michael knew was that he had enough external injuries. He didn’t need anything internal, too.

“Fine with me, we can still make it fun.” He ran a hand up Ryan’s back, already sweat-slick from their fight. “Kiss me,” he demanded, mouth nipping at the shell of Ryan’s ear before the older man did as he was told, pulling him in for a sorely missed kiss. 

For as long as Michael had known Ryan, he thought he was just an IT guy. Sweet, goofy, book smart if a little street stupid. A good man. He supposed that’s how Ryan had thought of him. Someone the other loved, wanted to protect.  _ Civilian. Innocent. Fragile.  _ When in reality they were anything but. He didn’t have to play nice with Ryan, anymore. Didn’t have to pretend picking a lawn service or making up a grocery list was the most important part of their relationship together. He didn’t have to hide, anymore. That freedom came to him like a punch to the stomach, tipping the world on his axis, making him gasp into Ryan’s mouth.

Ryan’s mouth bit down on his bottom lip, hard. He retaliated by dragging his hands nails down and grabbing the other’s ass, trying to hike him up and sit him between his legs so their thighs pressed together and their cocks met, both jumping at the sensation. 

Ryan licked a wet stripe on his palm and wrapped a hand around both of them, squeezing, slowly stroking. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Michael whined, already desperate. Ryan’s hand was big, warm, rough in a different way. This wasn’t a fight; there wasn’t a winner, this was them finding each other again. It was almost too much, looking into Ryan’s eyes and seeing relief and adoration there. “I can’t, I can’t believe -” 

Ryan shook his head. “Neither can I,” he said, ducking to kiss at Michael’s throat, down his chest. “I love you,” he said against his collarbone. “I love you so much.” 

“I love you too,” Michael choked out. How many times today was Ryan going to make him cry? Ryan’s hips thrusted lightly, his length sliding wetly against Michael’s, pressing up against his belly. It was barely anything; clumsy fumbling in their bed. Nothing had ever felt so good. He swallowed his tears; he was  _ happy,  _ goddamnit. He had enough of lies, suffering, distrust. “C-Can I do that thing you like?” Ryan moved from his spot along Michael’s neck, face confused before morphing into a look of recognition. He licked his lips, eyes hungry.

Michael reached up, hand closing around Ryan’s throat. His hips stuttered, and he let out a little whimper. 

Michael squeezed harder. 

“Come on, baby,” he murmured, “come for me, don’t hold back.” Ryan shivered, hips moving in jerking, harsh thrusts that made Michael struggle to hang on, maintain the grip he had. He could feel Ryan’s cock pulse against his own, almost there, almost - 

He let go of Ryan’s throat for a brief moment, before squeezing harder than before, cutting Ryan off mid-gasp and making the man bend forward, coming hard across his stomach with a choked noise, eyes rolling up in his head. Michael waited a few more seconds before he let go of his throat, instead holding Ryan’s shoulder to steady him, keep him from dropping right there and then.

“G-good,” Michael stuttered, biting his lip when Ryan’s hand closed around his cock. “So good for me. F-fuck, Ryan,” He shuttered into Ryan’s quick, self assured strokes and came not a minute later, adding more mess to his stomach. 

Ryan straightened up enough to fall onto his front next to Michael. His breathing still had a rattle to it. Michael glanced at the harsh bruises adorning the other’s back. It took him a few minutes for his brain to click back on, and he frowned, slapping at Ryan’s arm.

“What, ow, that’s a bruise, what?”

“Roll over.” 

Ryan grunted, but did as he was told.

There were two circular flesh wounds just over the skin of Ryan’s heart, surrounded by deep bruising. The stress from their recent fight caused them to start bleeding again. Michael felt his eyes sting again as he placed his hand next to the wound. He felt Ryan’s heart still beating quickly under his fingers.

“I almost killed you.”

“Don’t say that like it wasn’t what you wanted to do.”

“But I didn’t know when I fired. You weren’t Ryan to me until I took off your mask.” He looked up, meeting Ryan’s gaze. “You fired back.”

“Aren’t we treated like heartless monsters, you and I? And everyone else who gets in this game? I thought it wouldn’t matter.” 

“Wouldn’t matter…” Michael flopped onto his back.

Ryan rolled over so he face Michael, propping himself up on his elbow. “Do you ever feel bad when you kill someone? Ever have trouble sleeping?” Michael bit the inside of his cheek, staring at the ceiling.

“No.” 

Ryan laid down again. “Me neither.” He felt Ryan reach for his hand, their fingers intertwining

“Except for you,” Michael added. "I thought, I would always think, if someone found my husband at work, if they did something to you... that's the only thing that I ever worry about." 

“Me too. Looks like you're the last thing that needs protecting, huh?" Ryan schooled his face somewhat. "But if it was kill or be killed...”

“You couldn’t do it back there. Wouldn’t make a suicide pact, is what you said.” 

“The mark’s apartment was heat of the moment. I had a good ten hours to think after that.” Ryan carefully cupped Michael’s jaw with his other hand. The touch was gentle, but Michael’s face still ached from the many punches landed to it just an hour ago. “I got to look into your eyes,” he murmured.

“You always liked my eyes…” Michael whispered back. It was one of the first things Ryan had ever said to them when they met. How his brown eyes stood out. At the time he had thought it was a generic come on - who noticed brown eyes? - but he had gone back to Ryan’s room anyway, and after that… “When we met at that hotel in Almalfi, who were you trying to kill, anyway?”

“Mafia don was there for his niece's wedding. And I don’t  _ try  _ to kill anyone.” Michael giggled. “What about you?”

“Diplomat. Snuck into his hotel room and put a slow acting poison in his liquor. He died four days later on the plane ride home, no one ever figured it out.” Ryan hummed, leaning forward and kissing Michael again. Sweetly, but in a way that made him breathless. “So,” he asked, “what do we do now?” 

“Probably should get out of town for awhile,” Ryan suggested, turning around and laying the back of his head on Michael's chest. “Somewhere far away.”

Michael thought for a moment. “Cancun?”

“Mexico? Too obvious.”

“London?”

“Too accessible.”

“Paris?”

“Too romantic.”

Michael pet a hand through Ryan's sweat and blood-matted hair. “Then it’s perfect, isn’t it?” He could feel Ryan rolling his eyes, but something told him that he was starting to convince Ryan to his way of thinking. They were both notoriously hardheaded; Michael had his tricks to poke and prod at the other man to get what he wanted. It could all wait till morning, anyway. He closed his eyes, sighing. 

"Sorry I ruined your birthday, by the way," Ryan spoke up. 

"I had to say you got into a severe accident so Barbara and Trevor let it go. They wanted to visit you in the hospital. It was a lot to come up with, you know, while I was planning your murder." Ryan laughed, grabbing Michael's hand and kissing at the busted knuckles. Michael moved his head off the pillows. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure,"

"Today's not my birthday." He blew lightly along Ryan's ear. 

"What is it, then?" 

Michael shrugged, closing his eyes again.  "I'll let you figure it out." 

 

-

 

Ryan answered the door, drinking out of one of the few coffee mugs that survived the shootout last night with just a minor chip in the side. The coffee maker, sadly, was too melted to work any longer, so he had to make do with some Earl Grey. “Hey Meg,” he greeted. 

Meg, handler, friend, assassin in her own right when she ‘felt like it’, had Gavin in a chokehold. “Caught him stalking around the property when I pulled up.”

“I was looking for Michael!” he protested. Meg’s arm just went around his throat tighter than before. 

“Can we come in? There’s a situation.” Ryan opened the door wider, letting the pair wander into the trashed house. Meg let out a whistle.

“Anything left of your husband?”

“He’s getting dressed.” Ryan was still in a robe himself. They had fallen asleep last night, curled up together, woke up when the sun rose, and got… distracted. 

“I’m here,” Michael said with a yawn. He looked between Ryan and the situation with Gavin. “Your secretary’s your handler?”

“The secretary thing was a cover, but yes,” Meg said. She dropped Gavin, who fell to his knees, hands around his throat as he tried to regain his breath. 

“She almost killed me!”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said, pulling out her phone. “I thought you were here to kill Ryan. Or Michael. Whoever survived.” She showed her phone’s screen to Ryan, and Michael pressed up to his side to read it. “Whoever arranged that fake mark so you two could meet knows you’re both alive, and they don’t want you to be.”

“Bullshit,” Michael spat. “He’s not worth two hundred grand more than me. Our numbers are almost equal!” 

“It’s the mask. Branding,” Ryan explained. “And why aren’t you taking aim right now?” 

Meg shrugged. “I’m not getting out of bed for anything less than a million. But I am willing to get up this early for a friend.”

“Me too,” Gavin added. “I came here to warn you guys, too.” 

“Alright,” Michael said. “The laughably low price point probably buys us some time…”

Ryan glanced at Michael. “Now might be the time to try and fake our own deaths.” 

“Live on a secluded island and blend in with the natives?” Michael added.

“Only if we can come back in five years and get revenge.” 

“Sounds good to me.” They nodded at each other.

Gavin cooed. “You two are so cute when you’re not trying to kill each other anymore.”

“It is kind of endearing,” Meg admitted. “Alright, I think Gavin and I can help you with the fake your own death idea… You guys have some panic room we can talk about this?”

“No,” they both said at the same time. Then Michael added, “can we just like, meet up at a Denny’s? I’m hungry.” Meg sighed.

“Fine. Send me an address, we’ll meet you there.” She held Gavin by the back of the neck, leading him out of the house. The door shut again - the mirror in the foyer fell off the one hook it had still been hanging up by, crashing to the floor in an echoing clatter - and all fell quiet again.

“So,” Ryan started. “Faking our own deaths, huh?”

Michael shrugged, slipping his hand into Ryan’s and leaning against him. “I have a lot of savings, things I can pawn or launder out. We’d be okay. And, I don’t know, maybe it’s time we moved on. Or at least got out of Los Santos. Take a little vacation for ourselves.”

“Move to Paris for a while?” Michael sent him a winning smile, squeezed his hand.

“You said it, not me.” 


End file.
